


Steve's Playlist

by Zandra_Court



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Reader Insert, pre-Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23290315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zandra_Court/pseuds/Zandra_Court
Summary: Written for @the—sad—hatter’s Weird and Wonderful Challenge on tumblr: Prompt 26: I Put a Spell on You, Nina SimoneMost white-folk don't understand the Blues. Steve may be an exception.
Relationships: Steve x reader
Kudos: 8





	Steve's Playlist

It’s a few minutes before 1700 and Director Fury shouts my name as I turn off the light in my cubicle. 

“Agent, before you leave, can you take this to Rogers?”

I swallow hard, trying to play it cool. “Captain Rogers?” As if there is another one. Well, there is a Rogers down in accounting but I’m pretty sure the Director has no idea he even exists. He barely knows I exist. Though he did call me by name, so maybe it’s not a good idea to underestimate the Director’s pulse on the plebes of S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Yes, that one.” Bingo “Do you know where his office is, on the 3rd floor?” Everyone knew the Captain had chosen an office across from the hanger bay. It faced the interior of the Triskelion, meaning its window looked out mostly on the walls of the other two buildings; nothing but concrete and glass. It was the kind of office some middle manager would have, not the leader of the Avengers. But the Captain liked being close to the hanger, often eating lunch in the Machinists Lounge with the ground crew. 

“I do. Just that then?” I held out my hand towards him.

He passed me a 11”x 17” Manila envelope, about an inch thick. “That’s all. Good night.” He turns away before I can wish him a good night back. 

As I get off the elevator, I can hear the steep trumpet crescendo of the opening stanzas of _Sir Duke_ playing. Normally, the halls are quiet, but someone must be using the after-hours nature of their work to play music. S.H.I.E.L.D. rules prohibit connecting to any streaming services on company computers, so whoever it is has brought in speakers and must be playing it off their personal phone. Turning down the hall brings the music even louder. 

_Music is a world within itself, it’s a language we all understand, with an equal opportunity to sing and dance and clap your hands._

Stevie Wonder’s distinctive rhythm filled my ears, getting louder as I walked. My mom used to play this song on her Hits of the ‘70’s CD. _You can feel it all over. You can feel it all over, people!_

By the time I round the corner to the inverted half-circle that makes up the interior of the uniquely shaped office complex, the source of the the music becomes obvious. It’s pretty loud now and I can see him standing at his elevated computer desk, his feet stepping in time to the music as he types in a way that is rather adorable, but I tamp such thoughts down hard. This is Captain America for fucks sake. My knock clearly gives him a slight startle and I feel bad.

“Oh, hey.” He reaches over quickly and taps pause on his phone.

“You don’t have to stop on my account. I was told to bring you this.” I hold the envelope out for him, still standing just outside the doorway like a dumb-ass. Yes, it’s an office, but it’s an **Avenger** office, which feels more sacred. 

Steve chuckles, “There’s no magic force field there you know. You can come in.”

Crossing the threshold, I can’t help but look around. He keeps his office pretty sparse. There’s a whiteboard on one wall and to the left of his desk, a framed picture of what looks like Benjamin Franklin holding a large balance scale with an old-time baseball player standing on each half. Over the top of the players’ images are the words “Brooklyn Dodgers” on the left and “New York Yankees” on the right. Looking closer, I can see it’s from the 1941 World Series.

“Whoa, is that original?” 

He raises his eyebrows and whistles slightly. “Man, I wish. No, it’s a replica poster. But I had the playbook from that series. Went to every game and managed to get signatures on it from everyone but Riggs and Frank. I’d left it at my mom’s place when I enlisted but now it’s lost to time. If it survived, I’m sure it’s in some collector’s wall safe by now. You follow baseball?”

I shrug. “Not like that. I’m always up for a Nationals game if I get a chance. There is an energy watching live games that I enjoy, especially with good friends. But I don’t ever watch on TV.”

He nods. “TV wasn’t an option when I was a kid, just radio. But I agree with you. I still listen to games sometimes, but I don’t like watching them on TV. ‘Course, they aren’t in Brooklyn anymore, so they aren’t my Dodgers anyway.”

I looked down at the only picture on his desk. It’s a plain, pine framed image of three people sitting in what might be a large restaurant booth, but it’s hard to tell. They look happy, and maybe a little drunk. The woman I recognize immediately because her portrait hangs in the main foyer. Margaret Carter, one of the founders of S.H.I.E.L.D., though she’s much younger in his picture. The other two men I don’t know, though one is kind of familiar. “That’s Director Carter, right?” I ask, pointing at it.

Steve picks it up and hands it to me for a closer look. “Yeah. Spring 1944. Peggy. Howard. Bucky.” He points to each face. “That was taken at this restaurant Howard knew. No matter where we were, he knew the best places to go that hadn’t been bombed or raided and every waitress knew him by name.”

Now I knew why the man in the middle was familiar. His picture hung downstairs next to Director Carter’s, but he looks so good in this picture. Now that I’ve made the connection, I can see the Stark resemblance. 

“Woah, Mr. Stark didn’t age real well.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them and I wanted desperately to take them back. “I’m so sorry. That was...sorry.” 

My stomach clenches and temples throb with embarrassment. Who the fuck am I to criticize his friends? These people are portraits on a wall to me, but to him, they were drinking buddies. Best friends. The heat of my emotions races under my skin and I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye.

“It’s OK.” He takes the photo back, looking at it as he speaks. “Howard was so full of life and playful energy when I knew him. From what I understand, that changed as he got older. This is my memory of him though. And I’m glad I have it.”

His words shift my embarrassment to shame. “I’m glad you have it too. Can I ask...” He places the picture down and looks at me with such kind eyes I continue. “Where did you find it? I mean, it’s more personal than any S.H.I.E.L.D. photo I’ve seen and you said your stuff didn’t seem to stick around.” I was trying to cover my embarrassment with curiosity, seeking some neutral ground again.

“Tony gave it to me. I shot the photo, but I’d never seen how it turned out.” 

I’d heard that he and Iron Man didn’t always get along. Mostly gossip about how they bicker and would annoy the agents waiting to deploy on an op, so the Director had stopped sending them to the same places if he could help it. In this moment though, it was clear that Tony was a strong conduit to Steve’s past and it was hard to ignore the wave of loneliness that rolled off him. “It’s a great one. They look so happy.” He nods, continuing to look at it. I don’t want to step on his reminiscence so I turn to leave him to his thoughts. 

“Agent?” I stop and pivot just a little towards him. “The envelope?” I realize it’s still tucked under my arm and I look towards the ceiling in a desperate plea for The Powers of All to save me from any more stupid moves in front of this man ever again. 

“Right, sorry.” I say, hoping some old-time stage hook will just come drag me away.

“Thanks. And you don’t need to apologize all the time. You work here, same as me. You have as much right to be in this office as I do.”

 _O, Captain, that is not at all true._ Thankfully, my brain stops my running mouth before I straight up contradict a superior, though I appreciate that he wants that to be true. “Good night, Captain.”

“Good night.” As I leave the office, the music starts again; this time playing playing Earth, Wind, and Fire’s _September_.

******

In any other context, I might object to being tasked as Director Fury’s delivery person with ever increasing regularity, since I’m an analyst, not a messenger. However, the only person he sends me to is Captain Rogers, so how can I complain? Yeah, he’s the 8th level of Dante’s Inferno kind of hot, but these end-of-work assignments have let me see Steve Rogers for who he is, not just a magazine cover story. Most of our conversations only last 4 or 5 minutes, but they are the best part of any day they happen. He’ll ask about my work and genuinely seems interested the data analysis I do. I don’t ask him about the rumors of missions he goes on because my security clearance is slightly above the kid who delivers our sandwiches at lunch time so I stick to topics of life outside of work. Surprisingly, he never seems to hold back personal stories. Especially ones of his past. Something extremely rare in this building. 

Every time the elevator doors open on the third floor after 1700, I can hear the music play. Marvin Gaye, Earth, Wind, and Fire, Aretha Franklin, Al Green, Otis Redding, Stevie Wonder, ...he definitely has a specific taste for 60′s & 70’s R&B. Today as I approach, the song plays slow and melancholy. 

_You know I can’t stand it. Your running around. You know better, daddy. I can’t stand it, ‘cause you put me down. Yeah, yeah. I put a spell on you, because you’re mine._

Something made me stop just outside his office this time, listening. I can see him sitting with his arm resting on his desk, playing with a metal coin of some kind while looking out the window. The coin is bigger than any currency I’ve seen, and thicker, like a medal or medallion. He idly flips it through his fingers, lost in thought as the trumpet plays a jazz rift.

_I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you anyhow. And I don’t care if you don’t want me, I’m yours anyhow. I put a spell on you, because you’re mine._

A deep, mournful scatting ends the song so I knock lightly, knowing I’m interrupting something. He turns his head a little and nods, so I enter. As I get closer, I see wetness in his eyes. Not falling, just holding a firm tension at the edge of his lids.

“You OK, Sir?”

He sits up a little and shifts his chair so he’s fully turned towards me from behind his desk. “No need to call me Sir. And yeah, I’m fine.” He taps the coin on the desk and lays it down as he reaches over and pauses the playlist, which had shuffled to _Bring It on Home to Me_ by Sam Cooke. 

“Please. Sit and talk to me for bit.”

This is the first time he’s asked me to sit during one of these after-work deliveries, making me wonder if he really is OK. “I’m sorry for interrupting, I just needed to bring you this.” I slid the folder with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo on the front towards him. This one wasn’t classified, or I never would have been asked to bring it in an open file folder.

“You really gotta stop apologizing for things that aren’t your fault or responsibility. You’re here because you were ordered to by Fury.”

“I don’t mind, really.” 

“Well, it’s not exactly in your job description to bring me files. It’s probably my fault you keep getting asked. After the first time, I was talking to Nick about the information you’d given me and I told him that I enjoyed talking to you.”

My ears feel warm at the compliment. “I enjoy talking to you too.” This feels so awkwardly intimate that I have to shift gears to ease my nervousness. “What is that?” I point to the coin.

He hands it over. It’s about an inch and half in diameter; punched brass in deep relief. The edges are slightly worn down but readable. The words “107th Infantry” along run along the outer edge with two crossed rifles in the center. 

“It’s a Challenge Coin. They became a thing with the OSS during the war, but after all they’d been through with Hydra, the 107th felt they deserved them too. So the junior officers had their own made.”

“Was that your unit?” I wished I recalled more from 10th grade history class.

“Not exactly. I was kind of my own unit, but I ran missions with the 107th and a few others once the Howling Commandos came together. That,” he gestures to the coin in my hand, “was Bucky’s.” 

I glance at the photo on the desk. After our first encounter, I’d Googled Bucky Barnes so I wouldn’t make any more asshole remarks about his friends and learned he’d been a Sergeant in the 107th. “Wasn’t he enlisted though?”

Steve raised an eyebrow.”You’ve been researching. Yeah, but he was also very good at placing bets he knew he wouldn’t lose. Won it off an LT we both didn’t like very much.”

Remembering his other stories of items lost to the past, I ask, “However did you find it?”

“Never lost it. The night before the mission where...” He paused and took a breath, “before he died, Buck had given it to me. It was still in my uniform pocket when they thawed me out.”

The question floated in the silence and I wasn’t sure if it was one he wanted me to ask or not. In all our conversations, he was profoundly honest, and he’d brought it up, so that seemed like a green light.

“Why did he give it to you?”

“I’ve thought about that over and over since the day he fell. At first, I thought maybe he knew somehow...that he wouldn’t make it back. In the years since... it seems more of a promise. Not sure what he was promising exactly, but that feels more right to me. Bucky never believed a mission would fail, so it makes no sense for him to give to me as a goodbye.”

“And that song? The one playing before I came in? I know it’s an oldie, but I didn’t think it went back to the ‘40s.”

He chuckled. “What’re ya talking about? To me, Nina Simone’s a baby.”

“That was a woman singing?” I’d heard of Nina Simone, but realized I didn’t know which songs she was famous for. 

“Yeah. Don’t you just love her voice?”

“She’s amazing.” I agree. “You listen to the blues a lot, I’ve noticed. Doesn’t that make you sad?”

“You think my music is sad?” He asks, not accusing, but with genuine interest. 

“Well, isn’t that what the Blues are? Songs for when you’re feeling down?”

“I read a quote once by Etta James, ‘When I’m singing blues, I’m singing life.’ I know a lot of folks around here think my life is sad; ‘cause of what I lost. And there are times I am. But when I listen to the blues, I don’t even think about the time since I woke up. I think about times before. Brooklyn. My mom. Breadlines around the block. Not enough coal to keep the room warm. Bucky. The War. These songs, they feel like mine, even if it’s music from a later generation. Ya gotta listen to them with your heart. They aren’t sad at all really, just honest. The blues is life. Thanks for this.” He slid the folder over and placed it in his in-box. 

I hand the coin back to him and he places it in the front pocket of his cargo pants. “You’re welcome. Thanks for sharing. I always learn something when we talk.” I stand up to leave. 

“You’re easy to talk to. That’s a real gift. You ever thought of field work?”

I shake my head firmly. “No way. I learned real fast in academy that I’m as likely to shoot you or the wall as any target. I suck at firearms.” He laughs and bestows on me smile that reminds me why everyone loves him. “I like the work I do and I think I’m pretty good at it.”

“Gotta love someone who knows their strengths and weaknesses. You don’t have to limit your visits to delivering Nick’s paperwork, y’know. Come by anytime.”

I nod. “G’night Captain.”

“Good-night.” He’d touched the music back on before I’d even turned around. 

_If you ever change your mind about leaving, leaving me behind, Oh baby, bring it to me_

The lyrics followed me out the door and down the hall as I pulled out my phone to start making a new Spotify list.


End file.
